


A King's Wrath

by Elizabeth_Herondale



Category: Chronicles of Narnia (Movies), Narnia - Fandom, Narnia: Prince Caspian, Prince caspian - Fandom
Genre: Book/Movie: Prince Caspian, Caspian - Freeform, Chronicles of Narnia - Freeform, Fighting, Freeform, King Caspian, Other, Post-Prince Caspian, Prince Caspian, Worried Caspian, my fingers slipped, stressed king, whoops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-04
Updated: 2017-12-04
Packaged: 2019-02-10 08:30:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12908121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elizabeth_Herondale/pseuds/Elizabeth_Herondale
Summary: From a fic that I had started writing a long while ago. I only wrote this about a week and a half ago, though, at 1am when I couldn't sleep cuz I was too paranoid to do so [[that and I was binge watching Netflix's The Punisher so whoOps...]]But anyhoe. Caspian is traveling with a young lady at the moment, and they're on a quest to take back her kingdom from those who stole it from her family. They'd gotten separated, and Caspian is desperate to find her again





	A King's Wrath

______________

_There are stories about a King’s wrath…_

He was leaving a trail of Telmarine soldiers through the woods behind him like a trail of breadcrumbs, each body connecting with the blood that shook from his sword with each swing. He should have felt at least _some_ remorse for it, for what he was doing -- these were his _people_ , the people of the country he grew up in. But no. The only thing he felt was fear. He needed to find her, needed to… to get to her, find her… _protect_ her. 

It’s not that he felt her skillset was inadequate, no; she was quite the opposite. He’d _seen_ what the woman could do, but even so… he knew, he _knew_ what the Telmarines were capable of -- hell, he could deny it all he wants, but he’s still a Telmarine by blood and look what _he_ just did… what he’s _doing_. 

One more to go. He blocked the soldier’s advances with far too much ease. His senses were heightened to such a peak that he could see each and every little movement his targets made. With one last parry, Caspian took hold of the soldier’s shoulder with his free hand, driving his sword up under the man’s armor and under his rib cage. Caspian grit his teeth as he looked the man right in the eye, watching the life drain from his very being. He was ignoring the gruesome feel of slicing tissue and organs, ignoring the blood oozing onto his hand as he pulled the soldier closer, pushing his sword deeper until the crossguard was snug against the man’s stomach. 

With an angry grunt, he pulled his weapon free, pushing the man to the ground. Caspian stepped over him and continued on his desperate way through the woods, the noises of one choking on his own blood a stark contrast to the peaceful forest noises around him. 

The soft gurgles came to a stop, putting Caspian somewhat at ease knowing the man was finally dead, but he was still set so far on the edge he was close to teetering off. Where was she? She couldn’t have gone all that far, they’d only recently been separated. The sounds of metal hitting metal perked him up, and once again he found himself running towards battle instead of away from it. 

He only hoped he wouldn’t be too late in getting to her. 

He found himself arriving at a clearing, the sudden silence driving his feet to move faster for fear of what he was to find. 

As his battle-high was wearing down, now, everything was slowing into deep-detail, as it usually did before slipping into real time. Pushing through the final thicket of trees felt almost as if he were stopping time itself. The luscious green grass was stained through and through with blood, turning almost the entire clearing brown. Bodies were scattered haphazardly, laying lifeless, seeming as if they were asleep, though never taking another breath. 

She stood there, in the centre of the carnage, the middle of the blood puddle that was beginning to form, to soak into the ground. Her head was bowed, looking at something that lay at her feet. Her breathing was still ragged, and her clothing, her hair… _she_ was freckled in blood. The sword that hung limply at her side, the point just _barely_ grazing the ground, was coated, from point to pommel, in blood. It followed gravity, running down the blade to form a steady drip onto the ground at her feet. She herself looked completely unscathed. 

_There are stories about a King’s wrath…_

_But never a Queen’s…_


End file.
